Duty and Desire
by Kyla Baines
Summary: Cullen survived the fall of Kinloch Hold, but the events that transpired there left him a broken man. With a shattered heart and renewed determination to stay true to his Maker-given path, he seeks solace in his duties as a templar, but the last thing he expects to find in the City of Chains is a woman who can set him free.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Hi all, and thanks for checking out my newest story! This is Book 2 of my Devotion Series, and picks up in Kirkwall. __**It can be read as a stand alone**__, however, if you'd like to read about Cullen and Solona Amell prior to the tower falling, Book 1, __**Duty and Devotion**__, can be found on my profile page. I hope you all enjoy! Rating is subject to change..._

_-Kyla_

* * *

_Dragon 9:30, Cloudreach 8_

_Cullen_

* * *

Despite the lingering winter chill in the air, sweat beaded on Cullen's back. Every spare moment he'd had since moving to Kirkwall, he spent in the practice yard. He paused for a moment and sucked in air, willing the oxygen to help soothe his strained muscles, then whirled back to the practice dummy.

_Cross, slash, cross, slash, up, down, left, right, stab…_

He went through the _dance macabre_ over and over, desperately trying to lose himself to the rhythm of his sword. Perhaps if he wore himself down enough, tonight the nightmares would leave him.

Having only lived at the Kirkwall Circle for a short while, Cullen had noticed a stark difference between it and its Ferelden cousin. Yes, the tower was as well-organized as any, and his schedule was nearly identical, but it seemed the templars here had cut any and all ties to their past. Such a thing wasn't odd, per se, but there were many members of the Order who maintained contact with their families or kept personal effects from their younger days. Cullen, himself, had a small, wooden box his father had made him which carried a few trinkets from home. The same could be not be said for those he bunked with. The barracks felt significantly empty as a result…almost colder, somehow. His duties around the tower had also revealed some differences, most strikingly in the mages.

At first, his stations had been challenging. Assigned as a guard for a spirit healing class, he'd needed to clench his teeth and hold tightly to his copy of the Chant of Light. To be so close to magic once again, to feel its tendrils sweep through the room, he'd grown more and more uncomfortable. Rigid and distrustful, he'd half-expected the stench of blood magic to overpower him at any moment. When the bell sounded, Cullen had rushed off to the chapel to compose himself once again.

As the days passed, though, and he grew accustomed once more to the magic that permeated the air, he realized that he wasn't in Kinloch Hold any longer. This was not a tower on the precipice of falling into chaos. In fact, the more he settled in, the more time he spent actually observing the apprentices. The differences were astounding.

From his first day at Kinloch Hold, most of the apprentices had been easygoing and boisterous, even. Here, they were incredibly quiet. There was no furtive passing of notes in class or giggling when the enchanter wasn't looking. Meal times were perfunctory, and the noise level was nowhere near the ear-shattering volumes that they often reached in Ferelden. Even walking through the halls was surprising: most of the mages gave the templars a wide berth, often avoiding eye contact at all cost. It was as though they were perpetually afraid that they'd done something wrong.

Most of the templars here didn't think anything of it, and from what they told Cullen, it had been like this for as long as they could remember. In fact, Cullen suspected that some of the templars relished the fear that they inspired in their charges. He'd worried, hearing some of the cruder remarks of the templars when they spoke about how submissive the mages were, but managed to reassure himself. He was certain that despite their words behind closed doors, each and every one was a man of honor.

Cullen stepped back, shaking out his tired arms and rolling his head to ease the tension in his neck.

He wondered whether there had been many escape attempts by the mages here, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. The attitudes of mages and templars alike plainly showed that stunts such as Anders' would not be tolerated here.

_Anders_.

Cullen gripped the sword tighter and attacked the dummy with renewed vigor. Thinking of the carefree blonde mage took him far too close to the memories that he sought to repress. The little sleep he gained was plagued by the horrible last moments with her… he couldn't bear to let himself sort through that pain during his waking hours, too. It seemed, though, that the more he sought to ignore the anger and anguish that battled within him, the closer they came to spilling over the barriers he put up.

_Cross, slash, cross, slash, up, down, left, right, stab…_

Despite sticking to a strict schedule of duty, combat training, and prayer, Cullen still saw her everywhere. She was in the flash of gold of a mage's robes and the dark waves of an apprentice's hair. Echoes of her laughter seemed to follow him throughout the stone halls late at night. Worst of all were his duties in the library, though. The only thing he could think of amidst the towers of bookcases, enveloped in their musty scent, was the vision he'd suffered with that sinful doppelganger.

_Lithe fingers running through his hair, full hair cascading down her back, Kinloch Hold's library shimmering in the background…_

Cullen snarled and attacked the dummy with renewed vigor. He needed something to push the conflicting images of Solona out of his head. It was always one way or the other: she was either the vision of false perfection that he'd woken up to, or the reality of her dangling from the ceiling by bleeding wrists, staring out at him with lifeless eyes.

_Maker, why can't I just remember her as she was before everything fell apart?_

With a groan of frustration, Cullen slashed at the dummy a few more times before dropping the sword. His arms shook from the lengthy practice, and he flopped down onto the nearest bench, wiping his brow with a coarse towel.

"Ser Cullen?"

His gaze snapped up to the young templar recruit who had just sidled into the practice yard. From the wide-eyed gaze she had plastered on her face, Cullen wagered that she'd just witnessed his outburst. Of course, the anger on his face probably wasn't helping the situation, either. He took a deep breath and smoothed his expression before replying. "Yes, recruit. What is it?"

"I—er—I'm sorry to bother you, ser. It's just, the knight-commander wishes to see you," the girl muttered. Her eyes darted rapidly between Cullen and the training dummy that now had sizeable gouges taken out of it.

"Did she say when?"

"Right away, ser."

Cullen sighed. He'd hoped that he might be able to sneak in a bath. He didn't relish slipping back into his armor after this kind of exercise. Still, it wouldn't do for him to risk running late to a meeting with the knight-commander. "Very well. I'll head there immediately."

The girl scurried off, and Cullen hastily toweled himself off before donning his armor. He raked a hand through his short curls, grimacing at the cooled sweat his fingers pressed to his scalp. After replacing the practice sword on the rack, he set off at a quick march toward the templar offices in the upper levels of the tower.

* * *

Cullen rapped on the door at the end of the hall in the templar quarters. Anxiety pooled in his stomach like a lump of ice. He hadn't been here long, and although he was sure that he hadn't missed anything from his schedule or strayed from duties, he'd heard that Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard was notoriously strict with her templars and the mages alike.

"Enter."

At the muffled voice from within the room, Cullen opened the door and entered the study. The room was largely bare except for a half-full bookcase and a large, oaken desk. The few papers that were on the desk were meticulously organized, their edges aligned with one another perfectly. A number of quills sat in a uniform row, and the knight-commander idly straightened one as she stood to greet him.

"Excellent. Thank you for coming so quickly," she said, and picked up the top piece of vellum on her desk. "You arrived at Kirkwall just recently, correct?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander," Cullen replied, standing at ease in front of the desk. He tensed under her appraisal. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, only a few shades lighter than the lyrium swirling in vials on the bookshelf, and Cullen suspected they could see right into his very thoughts.

She stared only a moment longer, then returned her attention to the paper. "'Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford,' formerly of the Ferelden circle of magi, or so your dossier reports."

Cullen nodded in agreement.

"You were there, were you not, during the fall of the tower?" Meredith asked, her tone unreadable.

"I was, Knight-Commander." Cullen thanked the Maker that his voice remained steady. He prayed now that she didn't press him for more information. He wasn't certain he was ready to recall the horrors of those weeks yet again.

"So, you have seen your share of the atrocities that magic can call forth," she mused. "Frankly, Ser Cullen, I am quite surprised that Greagoir requested your reassignment to Kirkwall."

Cullen's heart sank. He'd begun to settle into a daily routine—if the Kirkwall Order thought him unstable, he feared where they would send him next, or if they would discharge him as Neria had worried.

"I say," Meredith continued, "that his loss is my gain."

Cullen's eyes shot to the blonde commander. There was a slight softening to the line of her lips that might have been her version of a smile.

"I will be honest with you, Ser Cullen: I need more good men here. Men who understand the dangers of magic, who have experienced it for themselves." She set the vellum down and began to pace. "There are too many templars who have been coddled in their training—taught that the mages are more in control than they really are. It leaves them vulnerable, and far too trusting in my opinion."

Cullen thought of his friends from Kinloch Hold, most of them now dead. Perhaps Meredith was right… had they been more suspecting, perhaps his friends wouldn't have suffered such horrid fates. His heart stuttered.

_Maybe _she_ would still be alive_.

"This lesson is one that I strive to make abundantly clear to all of the templars under me. Mages are not like us, as you well know. The power they wield requires a tight leash—for their safety and for ours. Vigilance is everything, Ser Cullen." Meredith stepped closer to him and cocked her head to the side. "What are your thoughts, Templar?"

Cullen swallowed hard. He wasn't sure what he believed anymore. In his hours of captivity, he'd been convinced that magic in every form was a poison that needed to be extracted, but once free from the tainted barrier of blood magic, Neria's words had softened him, if only slightly. One thing was certain, though. "I, too, believe that the mages must be watched closely. Even some who have passed their Harrowing are not immune to the temptations of demons."

Meredith nodded in approval, her eyes locked on him. "Well said, Ser Cullen. That is something that our members—even some older than you—would do well to remember." She walked back to her desk and straightened the already perfect papers. "I've received several reports of you and the other recruits who arrived late last month. Everything I have read seems very positive, so far… you have been punctual to your duties, the initiates say that you have been at every evening prayer service, and in your free time it seems that you take to the practice yard." She cast an appraising gaze over his tousled hair and dusty boots. "In fact, I wager that is exactly where you came from when I summoned you?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander," Cullen said. "I apologize for my appearance."

Meredith waved a dismissing hand at him. "That matters little to me. As long as your armor is functional, and your sword arm ready, that is the most important thing."

Cullen sagged in relief.

"One last thing before you take your leave," she said. "I am in need of a new knight-captain. William died on a tracking mission only a few weeks ago. The apostates he hunted ambushed him and his men. I'll be watching your progress over the next months, Ser Cullen. Don't let me down. You may leave."

Cullen saluted and walked out of the office, his head a little higher.

_Finally, here is someone who understands. The mages here might be more subdued than at Kinloch Hold, but perhaps that will keep them safe. _

He entered his chambers and shut the door behind him. Thankfully, Ser Samson was not around, so Cullen could bathe in peace. Before he shucked his armor, he glanced at the little box on the lower shelf by his bed. He sat down and pulled the box onto his lap, running his finger over the smooth carvings as he'd done a hundred times before. He opened it with shaking hands.

There was the stack of letters from home, the bottom ones yellowed with age. He glanced at them, guilt rising uncomfortably within him. He hadn't replied to the last letter they'd sent him, asking how his first weeks at Kinloch Hold had been. Now, he realized with renewed pain, there was a chance he'd never see them again. Darkspawn roamed Ferelden. Honnleath, though out of the way, was still south—the reported area that the monsters had appeared from.

Even as a child, Cullen had been more distant with his family than other boys his age. He'd obsessed over the templars, had followed them around every day, begging to be taught. When they tired of humoring him, he'd borrowed books on templar lore and history from the chantry and gone to sit outside and soak in the words and the sun. He wondered if his favorite spot was still there: a bizarre statue made of stone with multicolored crystals embedded within. The creature's face was fierce, but Cullen had loved it. Many of the other villagers had shied away, shaking their heads at him, thinking the carvings to be intimidating. He'd rested against the statue for hours at a time, reading and imagining glorious battles. A faint smile cracked his lips as he recalled his sister's annoyance whenever their father sent her for him.

_Sweet Andraste, if they're still alive, I promise I'll try to keep in contact with them more frequently_.

He shifted the letters aside. Underneath it was a stone chess piece that his sister had given him when he left home upon being accepted into the Templar Order. His fingers traced the smooth contours of the rampant horse.

_A knight for a knight_.

He remembered her words like yesterday. Maker, if he didn't contact them soon, she'd probably kill him.

With the knight tucked back into its niche, Cullen ran his fingers over the only other object in the box: Solona's bracelet. He sat and stared at the silver band for a long time, fighting against the emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. Abruptly, he shut the lid of the box and stood. He moved to place the box back on the shelf, but paused.

_The knight-commander is right: vigilance and duty are my only priorities now. _

He felt underneath the bed until he found what he was looking for: a loose floorboard. He lifted it up, coughing at the dust that billowed around him, and stuffed the box out of sight. Any distractions held the potential for disaster—he'd learned that lesson well at Kinloch Hold.

His duty was to the Maker—to the templars.


	2. Chapter 2

_One Year Later…_

_Dragon 9:31, Cloudreach 15_

_Hawke_

* * *

Hawke jumped as Carver slammed two full tankards of ale down on their corner table. She watched the amber liquid slosh over the rims, and scowled at her brother. "That's a waste of perfectly good ale, you know."

Carver scoffed. "You and I both know very well that this is _not_ 'perfectly good ale.' In fact, I doubt it even qualifies as 'marginally drinkable ale.'"

Hawke shrugged. "As long as it does its job, it's all right in my books." She drank deeply, swallowing quickly to avoid contact with the strangely metallic-tasting brew. She gave herself a shake. "But, you are right… it is vile."

Carver nodded, one eyebrow quirked. "We'd best enjoy it… this is just about the last of the coin we have to burn, unless we want to give up on food for a while."

"But," she interrupted, pointing a finger at him, "we _are_ free, finally!"

"Hear, hear!" her brother agreed, raising his mug and tapping it to hers.

Their service with Athenril had finished about a week earlier, but the sly elf had offered them one last job—one last _paid_ job—and so they'd gone along on one more smuggling run to a system of caves not far from Kirkwall.

"Not to put a damper on things, but we really should think about what we are going to do for money now that we actually have a choice in the matter," Carver said with a sigh. "If I have a vote, I'd say that we stick to something a little more… legal?"

Hawke chuckled. "Come on, where's your sense of fun, Carver?" She took another long pull from her mug.

"Oh, my sense of fun is perfectly fine at the moment. I'd like to keep it that way, though, and the only way I know how to ensure that is with regular meals. And, dear sister, we need _coin_ for that." He grinned and swirled the remnants of his drink. "I suppose I could go to the city guard and offer to help them out on the occasional odd job. They did mention that those pop up every now and again, even if they don't have the space or funding to train anyone new, yet."

"That could be a good option, providing the jobs are regular enough to keep the coin coming in." Hawke turned and caught the eye of the bartender, holding up her glass to request a refill. "I suppose I could come along, too—"

Carver coughed on his last mouthful of ale, spraying it all over the table. "Absolutely _not_."

Hawke scowled at him. "And why not, may I ask? I'm sure that I'd be perfectly capable of scouting the outskirts of the city with you. Plus, I've gotten much better at fighting without, well, you know what," she whispered, wiggling her fingers for effect.

"_That_," Carver said, mimicking her motions, "is precisely why not! What in the name of the Void is going on with your magic, Mari?" he hissed in a low voice. His eyes darted around to make sure that nobody had taken an interest in their conversation.

Hawke widened her eyes in a show of faux innocence. "I don't know what you mean, Carver," she said sweetly, then smiled brightly at the bartender who had brought their second round.

"Oh, come on, Mari. You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about." Carver rolled his eyes. "You caught my damned pants on fire last week!"

Hawke sipped at her drink. "So?"

"So… I was standing _behind_ you at the time," he replied with a disgusted look. "Not exactly something as simple as bad aim."

She didn't say anything. Hawke knew her brother was right, but she didn't want to deal with that particular problem at the moment. The ale was finally taking effect, and she felt lighter and more carefree than she had in quite some time.

"Plus," Carver continued, oblivious to her silence, "people were _staring_, Mari! You burned away the entire left cheek…"

"Did I?" she asked in mock surprise. "Oh dear. Well, I suppose that we'll have to come up with a good explanation for the tailor. Hmm… do you suppose they'd buy that a mabari did that?"

"Sweet Andraste," Carver sighed, raking a hand through his unruly hair. "Mari, be serious for a minute, won't you? Honestly, now, tell me what's going on."

Hawke sighed. She'd been hoping that her control would come back before Carver pushed the issue, but there was no getting around it, now. "I don't really know, Carver," she said quietly. "I've been having issues controlling it lately… well, not even just recently. It's just been getting steadily worse since Bethany died."

"For an entire year?" Carver hissed. "And you didn't think to tell me _before_ you set me on fire?"

"I thought I'd have things figured out by now! I think it's something to do with my guilt, though…" Mari said. "I've heard that major, emotional events can alter a mage's connection to their magic. Maybe that's what's happened."

"Maker's balls…" Carver breathed. "So, what can we do?"

"Well, about that," Hawke began, "I have one idea. I'd rather hoped you'd have a bit more ale in you before I mentioned it, but—"

Carver quickly gulped down his drink, then fixed her with a pointed stare.

"Very funny," she said with a wry grin. "Like I said, I think this whole issue has something to do with the guilt I've felt. I can't get over the fact that I think I could have saved Bethany if I'd been a better healer. The _only_ spells I've been able to do with any sort of consistency are small healing ones. Everything else tends to, you know…"

"Burst into flame?" Carver supplied, barely suppressing a grin.

Hawke grinned. "Yes, as evidenced by your pants."

"Pants aside, though," Carver said, "what are you saying, exactly? You don't think you want to switch to healing, do you? I mean, no offense, Mari, but healing's never really been your strong point."

Hawke gave an unladylike snort that Leandra would have been appalled to hear. "You're telling me. But it's odd, isn't it, that of all spells, those are the only ones that I have been having any luck with lately?"

Carver nodded slowly.

"I really think I need to look into it more, Carver," she continued. The ale was starting to muddle her thoughts at a rapid pace, and she needed to get her point across now if she had any hope of convincing him tonight. "Plus, think of how helpful it would be having a healer in the family. We'd never have to pay for a doctor again!"

Carver stared at her, then reached around and scratched the back of his head. "Mari, I see your point and understand your reasoning—truly, I do. There's one little problem, though: just because you _want_ to be a healer now doesn't change the fact that you've got next to no experience with it."

Hawke glanced up from her drink, and Carver narrowed his eyes. "Out with it, Mari. I know that look. You've got some half-arsed plan in place already, don't you?"

"Er… maybe?" She said, grinning despite herself. Carver cocked an eyebrow, and she giggled.

_Maker, the ale must be stronger than I thought if I'm amused before even telling Carver about this plan._

"Well, remember a few weeks ago when Athenril sent me to replenish some supplies? While I was at the shop, I overheard some people talking about a healer."

"A healer?" Disdain laced Carver's voice. "Come on, Mari. This is _Kirkwall_. What makes you think that this healer the refugees are talking about is anything but another simple apothecary?"

"That's just the thing! I assumed so, too, at least at first. But the more they talked, the more it sounded like there was something more to him. They say that he's down in Darktown, and that his shop's pretty remote," Hawke babbled. "The person who had been there said that he'd seen a boy walk out of there who had been on his death bed the day before. I'm sure there's more to him than just a skilled physician."

Carver's look was unimpressed. "Are you sure you're not just hearing what you want to hear, Mari? Think this through. I mean, what if your interpretation is wrong, and he's not a mage? How exactly is that going to sound if you walk in there and say 'teach me your ways, oh great one,' and he's just some bloke who mixes herbs together in the right proportions?"

Hawke's ale-addled mind involuntarily created the scene in her mind's eye. She pictured herself prostrate on the ground in front of some grey-bearded man who sold fake remedies, and she dissolved into laughter.

Carver sighed. "Come on, Mari, I'm serious! If you're going down there, you need some sort of backup plan in case he isn't a mage. What are you going to tell him? You can't exactly wander in there and say you're just window-shopping. That's likely to get you stabbed in Darktown."

"Oh, I know!" Hawke said, her grin widening. "I'll tell him my brother's got a burn that needs ointment. And that it's in a _terribly_ uncomfortable spot. That'll also explain why you haven't come along."

"Ha ha, that's terribly funny," said Carver, scowling. "And that won't work, because if you're insisting on this, then I _am_ going along."

Hawke gawked at him. "Wait, are you saying that you actually agree with me going there?" She'd been expecting resistance from her brother on this particular idea.

"Maker's breath, you're going to be the death of me," he breathed, barely loud enough for Hawke to hear. He sighed, then spoke normally. "I'm not saying I agree with it, no. What I _am_ saying, though, is that we need to figure something out to get your magic reined in before you accidentally set the knight-commander's britches on fire. Right now, this seems like the only option we have to move forward. I know better than most what could happen if you just try to suppress it, remember?"

Hawke laughed and slopped a bit of ale down her front. "Are you referring to that incident when I was, what, eleven or twelve?"

"Yes," Carver said, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought off a smile. "You decided that you'd had enough of practicing magic, and didn't cast a spell for an entire week, despite Father's warnings. Then, one night, I was minding my own business, sleeping as soundly as can be, when it starts raining. In my room. Right on my bed."

"I'm telling you, that could have been anyone," Hawke said, unsuccessfully attempting to school her face back into a serious expression.

"Right, and Gamlen's the heir to the Starkhaven throne."

* * *

_Dragon 9:31, Cloudreach 17_

* * *

Hawke and Carver inched their way through the streets of Darktown, pausing now and then to dodge rank puddles that _had_ to be more than muddy water. Rank air rose from the sewers, and Hawke determinedly ignored the glances of all the people they passed. Though she'd never admit it to Carver, she was beginning to second-guess her plan now that they were here. After all, what self-respecting healer—mage or otherwise—would willingly live down here? There were other places in Kirkwall for mages to hide… places far less unpleasant than this. These crumbling buildings slick with greasy stains and eroded with saltwater made their hovel in Lowtown seem like a palace.

Carver stopped, and Hawke bumped into him. He grasped her arm and pulled her up next to him. "See that?" he asked, pointing at a door up the next flight of moldy stairs. "Isn't that what the refugees described? Something about a lit lantern?"

There was indeed a grubby lantern fixed to the crumbling wall beside the door. Though the glass panes were etched and hazy with age, a candle flickered feebly within. "Yes," Hawke whispered. "They said that if the lantern is lit, he should be there. Anders, I believe his name is?"

"Don't ask me," Carver said, "I'm not the one who was listening in on those conversations." He nudged her forward. "Well, shall we get this over with?"

Hawke nodded and walked up the steps, toeing over a man who was passed out at the top, an empty liquor bottle held loosely in one hand. She walked to the door, and hesitated a moment. Carver nodded his encouragement, and she knocked.

"Enter."

With one last glance at her brother, Hawke pushed open the door and walked into a dimly-lit room. A desk stood in the corner, its surface overflowing with parchment, and ink pots littered the ground beneath it. There was a makeshift bed in the center of the room and was made up with surprisingly clean sheets compared to the condition of the rest of the building. The healer himself stood with his back to them, arranging dried plants on the table against the far wall. He was slightly shorter than Carver, his flaxen hair contained in an untidy tail at the nape of his neck. The light color shone in stark contrast to the dark pauldron of feathers stretched across his shoulders.

Hawke cleared her throat, trying to think of the best way to broach the subject of his tutelage. She scowled at Carver's raised brows, and said, "Nice night for healing, isn't it?"

The man turned around, his amber eyes narrowed in confusion. Her cheeks burned.

_Very eloquent, Mari. Now he thinks you're a complete twit. _

The healer cast his eyes quickly between her and Carver. "You two are in much better shape that the lot I'm used to dealing with."

"Oh? How so?" Hawke asked.

His lips quirked up in the ghost of a smile. "Well, neither of you appears to be dying, for one."

Hawke decided that the best thing to do for now was remain casual. She stepped forward and extended her hand. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Hawke."

"Like the bird, 'hawk'?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "I say 'yes,' are you going to pluck my feathers to add to your fancy coat, there? No, my family name is Hawke. Also, where I come from, it's customary to give your own name back when you're being introduced."

He laughed. "Right you are. I apologize. I am Anders. Now, I'm guessing that you came here with some purpose aside from matching wits with me?"

"Yes," Hawke said, and glanced at Carver. She needed to figure out some way of learning if he was a mage or not, but her brother only shrugged. Perhaps it was time to throw caution to the winds. "Anders, here's the thing—"

_I want to know if you're a mage. But wait! I promise I won't tell on you if you are!_

Her courage failed and she looked apologetically at Carver before speaking her next thoughts aloud. "My brother's got a nasty burn in a rather… compromising position. He's too embarrassed to say anything, though." She could feel her brother's eyes boring a hole into her back, and she reminded herself to buy him a new pair of pants to make up for this… and for ruining his other pair.

"Is that so?" Anders said, casting an amused glance at Carver. "Reminds me of the results of some of the pranks my friends and I would pull while we were at—when we were younger. You're not a templar are you?"

Hawke scoffed. "Me, a templar? Can you honestly tell me that I look like a brainless idiot who swings a sword about while singing the Chant of Light?"

Carver's lips twisted. "Oh, come on. They're not _all_ that bad."

"Hmm, well, I guess that depends on who you ask," Anders said grimly. "Now, let's see about this burn of yours."

Hawke gave Carver a beseeching look while Anders' back was still turned. It was true that the burn wasn't that bad, but if her brother baring his bottom gave her a few more moments to come up with a plan, then it would certainly be worth it.

Carver glowered, but nodded tightly. His expression said it all, though: she was going to owe him for this one. He turned to Anders, who was already busying himself at his herbal table. "Yes. My sister is right… it hurts something awful right now."

Anders turned around with a jar of salve in his hand. "All right. Go ahead and lie down on the table and expose the burn."

Hawke stifled a laugh as Carver grudgingly dropped his trousers and flopped face-down on the cot. She turned around as soon as he reached to pull down his smalls. To keep herself occupied, she wandered over to the table of herbs. Barely listening to the conversation at her back, she traced her fingers over the dried stalks and leaves.

_Embrium, spindleweed, deathroot…_

She stilled. She'd only ever seen the three combined one other place: on her father's workbench, long ago when she was young. That could only mean one thing…

"So, Anders?" she asked lightly, "this pranking that you were talking about?"

He grunted in response, clearly intent on his ministrations.

"Did you happen to be doing those while you were in the Ferelden Circle?"

She glanced up in time to see him shrug, continuing to work on Carver. A few breaths later he stilled, his shoulders tightening. "Oh, shit," he breathed.

The candles sputtered and the air in the room seemed to impact all around Anders. Lines of iridescent blue streaked his skin, and the air crackled with power. He reached for a roughly hewn staff that was stashed under the cot, then looked at Hawke, his face a mask of hard lines and eyes cobalt and crystalline. Carver hastily pulled up his pants and backed away, reaching for his sword.

Hawke raised her hands defensively. "_Whoa_, calm down, Blue! I'm not going to turn you in!" She shook her head and gave him a patronizing look. "Maker's breath, don't you know another mage when you see one? And here they were saying you were smart, too."

The room lightened, and the wind in Hawke's ears died away. Anders lowered his extended arm, and his eyes faded back to amber. It seemed that he pulled back some part of himself with great difficulty. "You're a mage?"

Hawke coughed to cover her nervous laugh. "No, I just thought I'd throw that out there to a complete stranger in the hopes that they'd ship me off to be made Tranquil. Of _course_ I'm a mage. Why in Andraste's name would I come here otherwise?"

"Oh, I don't know," snapped Anders, "for the same reason everyone else comes here, maybe? You know, world-class healing and all that."

"Well, we sort of did," Hawke quipped, pointing at her brother who was scowling at Anders.

"Speaking of which," Anders said, gesturing wildly with the cream he'd been applying to Carver's ailing hindquarters, "if you're a mage, why did you need me to ease your poor brother's flaming arse?"

"Well, it's actually got more to do with his arse than you think," Hawke replied, smiling despite herself. "You see, that might have actually been my fault."

Anders pressed the forefingers of each hand to his temples. "My point, Hawke, is that regardless of whose fault it was, I'm certain that as an apostate, you know at least rudimentary healing spells."

Hawke waved her hands irritably. "Yes, yes, I'm getting to that. I do know some healing, but _that_, Blue, is where you come in. I'm actually rather hopeless with healing, and could certainly use some help. I was hoping you could be convinced to teach me."

Anders looked at her, one eyebrow arched. "Did you just call me 'Blue?'"

Hawke shrugged. "Have you _seen _yourself when you get all..." she snapped her fingers, searching for the right word, "intense?"

"You have no idea," Anders laughed darkly, then shook his head. "But that's beside the point right now. You want me to _teach_ you? Listen, Hawke even if healing isn't your best area, I'm certain by now that your talents are more obvious in other areas. Why don't you focus on that and leave the healing to me?"

Carver barked out a laugh. "And that brings us to our next issue. Remember that burn you were unfortunate enough to see just a moment ago? That was _her_ fault."

Anders shot a questioning glance her way. "What, do you two not get along? Trust me, I saw my fair share of 'errant' fireballs from my time in the circle."

"Well… that's not exactly it," Hawke caged. "Carver and I actually get along just fine. I guess you could say that his pants getting set on fire was a sort of… accident?"

"Please tell me you just mean that you aimed your spell incorrectly," Anders growled. He certainly knew what she was implying, but didn't want to hear it out loud.

Hawke swallowed. "Not quite. It just… happened. He was standing behind me at the time, in fact." Anders started pacing again, and he gripped his staff until his knuckles turned white. When the smoky trails of blue began to illuminate his skin again, she hastily continued her explanation. "Listen, you're a mage—from your reaction, you've also heard of full mages losing control of their magic. I'm pretty sure the reason I've been having problems is because of… emotional strain." She swallowed hard, ruthlessly pushing the grief down again. "I feel led, somehow, to try out healing. I think that will help me regain control. I just need someone to help me."

Anders sucked in several deep breaths. He still appeared to be frustrated beyond all measure, but at least those strange, glowing marks had faded once more. "Hawke, trust me when I say that I am the last person you'd want to ask help from right now."

"Why?" Hawke asked before she could still her flippant tongue. "If it's got something to do with all that—" she waved her hands dramatically, "—blue-ness, it's fine! Go ahead and keep your secrets… we all have them."

Anders smiled tightly, his eyes burning. "Secrets… yes. Though some secrets are best kept to oneself, don't you think?" He paused, and then resumed his pacing.

Hawke glanced at Carver, wondering if this was Anders' way of dismissing them. Carver shrugged, then shook his head. "Come on, Mar—Hawke," he corrected. "He's not going to help us."

She looked once more at the pacing mage, then started to follow her brother back out into the streets of Darktown.

"Wait."

Hawke smiled to herself. She turned back to face Anders with her face smoothed back into polite curiosity.

"I at least need to see what I'm dealing with before I say no outright," he said carefully.

"Okay," Hawke replied. "So, what do you want me to do? Light a fire in here or something? Who knows, I might miss again and need healing for myself."

Anders grinned, but it faded quickly. "No, nothing like that." He took a deep breath and rubbed his neck with his free hand. "What if I agreed to help you on the condition that you help me with something—a favor for a favor?"

Hawke arched an eyebrow. "And what exactly would this 'favor' entail? Because I'll tell you right now, if it involves me streaking through the Gallows naked and setting fire to everything I can see, I may have to draw the line there."

"No flames, I assure you," Anders said, but his intensity worried Hawke. He hadn't rejected the Gallows part.

_Maker, what have I gotten myself into this time?_

"Meet me tomorrow evening in the chantry courtyard in Hightown. I'll explain everything then. If, at that point, you still wish to help me, I'll gladly tutor you in return."

Hawke looked to her brother for confirmation, then extended her hand to Anders once more. "Done. We will see you there."

She turned to leave, her mind whirling with the possibilities of what they might be doing the following night. Not sensing Carver behind her, she turned, only to see her brother hesitating.

"Carver?" she asked. To her immense surprise, he flushed red and turned back to Anders.

"Er, would you mind sending a bit of that ointment along with me?" he mumbled to Anders. "My sister really is complete shit at healing."

Hawke dissolved into a fit of laughter, holding on to the damp door jamb for support as a grinning Anders tossed the tub to her brother.

* * *

**A/N: **_Hi all! Thanks first and foremost to my amazing beta and authority on all things Anders: __**Jaden Anderson**__. Many thanks also go out to my reviewers from last chapter: __**Danie-Dono, Marlene101, Lulu14168, Melysande, Candle in the Night, Miss Mahariel, FenZev, **__and __**Vorenea. **__Thank you also to those of you who added this to your favorites/follows lists! I believe I PM'd all of you personally, but if I missed anyone, I sincerely apologize!_

_I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter! If you'd like to leave me a little note with your thoughts, I'd love to hear from you!_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **_A big thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta for all her help! __**Jaden Anderson, **__you are the best! Special thanks also go out to my reviewers from last chapter: __**Marlene101, Lulu14168, WhiteRose123, Melysande, Vorenea, Candle in the Night, FenZev, Loverofallfiction**__, and __**shiyona**__. Sorry for the slight delay in posting this chapter—I was busy writing a gift fic for my dear friend, __**FenZev**__, who was the 300__th__ reviewer of Duty and Devotion! Thanks to all of you for your support!_

* * *

_Dragon 9:31, Cloudreach 21_

_Hawke_

* * *

"Carver, darling, _there_ you are!"

Hawke and her brother had barely made it through the door of hovel when their mother descended on them. Elaborate curls held half her hair while the rest remained tightly coiled. Hawke glanced around, noting the starched trousers and shirt that hung in the doorway. "What's going on?" she asked cautiously.

Leandra grasped Carver by the hand and pulled him into the back room where a tub filled with steaming water stood. "Hurry and bathe, Carver—we haven't much time before our afternoon tea at the Valois estate!"

"Afternoon tea?" Carver echoed weakly. "And why exactly am I only hearing about this now, Mother?"

Leandra moved into the next room and they heard the clatter of pins as she freed the rest of her hair. "Oh, I only arranged it this morning, Darling!"

Carver groaned. "And why, may I ask, do _I_ have to go along to some stuffy noble's house?"

Leandra's poked her head back in the doorway, her lips pursing when she saw Carver still dressed in his dusty travelling gear. "Because I've arranged for you to meet their daughter, Lady Colette. _Do_ hurry up, Carver… we don't want to keep them waiting!"

Hawke clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, but her stifled merriment was the only sound in the room. Carver's angry silence moved through the house like a thick fog.

"What?" he finally asked. "Mother, _please_ tell me you aren't trying to… to set me up with some noble twit!"

"Oh, Carver, do be reasonable," Leandra cooed, walking back toward him

"And what about Mari? She's coming, too, right?" Carver said, shrugging out of the coat Leandra was delicately pulling off of him.

Hawke shot a look of venom at her brother. The _last_ thing she wanted to do was prance about in Hightown, especially when she was prone to uncontrollable fits of magic.

"Actually, no. This is just you and me, today."

"But Mother—Mari's the eldest! Shouldn't you be trying to marry her off, first?" Carver gave Mari a beseeching look. She just leaned against the doorframe and smiled at him, delighted that she wasn't in her brother's place. At least, not yet.

"Oh, eventually it will come to that. I just haven't found anyone suitable for her, yet."

"Thank the Maker for small mercies," Hawke mumbled.

Leandra carried on as though she hadn't heard. "Remember, Carver, we _are_ trying to get back to our old estate. If we ever want to do that, we need the appropriate connections in Hightown. We can't just move back in one day and expect to be in good standing unless we build relationships, first."

"Sod the estate, Mother!" Carver exclaimed. "I'm all for moving up in the world, if that's what you really want, but if you expect me to chase after some stuffy girl whose distant relation was the Orlesian ruler's royal arse-kisser—"

"Carver!" Leandra dropped the bar of soap into the tub in shock.

"Sorry, Mother," he murmured, his cheeks flushing red.

"_Really_, Dear. Do try to refrain from using such language around Lady Colette. No matter what your opinions of the nobles are, she is an absolutely lovely girl."

Carver and Hawke shared a look. Knowing their mother, there was certain to be a _but_.

"Her family is very well-thought of here in Kirkwall. Her father works in finances at the viscount's keep, in fact! Her mother was one of the true beauties when we were younger—she's close to my age and I remember her from my youth quite well. Now, Colette, I admit she does physically take after her father a bit more—"

And _there_ it was: the fault they'd been waiting to hear. Hawke grinned at Carver, who rolled his eyes and strode in to take a bath, forfeiting the battle to his mother.

* * *

A short time later, Carver tugged on the collar of his new shirt, his neck a bit too thick to fit comfortably in the stiff tunic.

Leandra fussed around him, brushing imaginary dirt off of his clothes and carefully patting her own impeccably styled hair. "Carver, you look so handsome!" she gushed, smoothing his hair back into place. Despite her best efforts, it refused to lie the way she wanted it.

Hawke turned so her mother wouldn't see her laughter. She was far too used to seeing Carver in his day-to-day wear that anything remotely fancy looked utterly ridiculous on him.

"Don't you think your brother looks splendid, Marian?" Leandra asked. "Surely, he could win the heart of any girl in Hightown! He looks so much like your father did at his age…"

Hawke arranged her face into mock sincerity. "Oh, yes, he looks absolutely _divine_, Mother." She smiled broadly at the miserable look on Carver's face.

"What will you do in our absence, Darling?"

"You know, I haven't really thought about it." She quirked another grin at Carver, whose brows shot up in suspicion. He knew her all too well.

In fact, she _had_ thought about it, and knew _exactly_ what she planned to do with her free time. For the past year, Hawke and Carver had heard a great deal about the ruthless templars in Kirkwall, and had seen evidence of it while working under Athenril. It was common knowledge among Kirkwall's criminals that an underground organization worked to free oppressed mages from the circle. Athenril's group had even been hired to smuggle supplies to one of the safe-houses at one point. Once free of service, Hawke had wanted to do some snooping around to see if there was any chance of her offering help, but Carver would hear none of it. Today was her chance—with her brother detained, she was free to explore the Gallows on her own and personally assess the situation.

"You _could_ go to the market, Mari," Leandra said sweetly. "I saw some of the tonics for sale the other day. A merchant there assured me that one of his can grow hair twice as fast! Just think, your hair could be back to normal within a few months!"

Hawke shook her head. Ever since she'd hacked her hair off a year ago, Leandra had grown desperate for her to grow it long again. Hawke whipped her fingers through the choppy strands that fell across her brow. She much preferred this simple style to her former lengths.

Leandra stilled her hands and a tiny frown creased her brow. "And he also said that there are certain powders that might help to hide that scar of yours."

Hawke groaned. While working with Athenril, she'd acquired dozens of injuries. Minor gashes that had healed quite easily—either on her own or with potions. However, one night she'd caught the flat of a blade against her nose. The bone had broken, and her skin had torn. Later that night, she'd managed to heal the break before her magic went haywire, but had failed to seal the wound, resulting in a jagged scar that stretched across the bridge of her nose and partway onto one cheek.

"Mother—"

"I know, I know. You're too practical to care about these frivolous things." Leandra sighed heavily. "It's just… you used to be _so_ pretty—not that you aren't _still_, Darling—but if you just put a bit more effort in—"

"Sweet Andraste's knickers!" The front door slammed open, the faint scent of alcohol surrounding Gamlen. "What in the Void are you doing all tarted up?"

"Maker! We're going to be late if we don't hurry!" Leandra cried, ignoring her brother's outburst while looking at the old timepiece on the wall. She grasped Carver by the hand and headed for the open door.

"We're off to meet Colette Valois," Carver said miserably when Gamlen's gaze followed them.

"Valois?" Their uncle cocked his head to the side. "Oh, Valois! Isn't she the one with shoulders like a mabari?"

Hawke's irritation at her mother vanished, and she broke down into hearty laughter. Better Carver than her.

* * *

Hawke strode into the courtyard of the Kirkwall Gallows. It was almost exactly as she remembered it from when they'd first arrived in the city.

The imposing cliffs on either side of the bay loomed over her. While they blocked the worst of the treacherous current from the docking area, they also cast the Gallows into perpetual shadow, except for when the sun rose directly overhead. The fortress itself emerged from those same cliffs, carved directly out of the mountain stone. The only color in this dreary place came from the blood-red banners bearing the Kirkwall coat-of-arms and the bronze pillar statues. Hawke swallowed hard as she walked past these reminders of the city's violent past. She tried unsuccessfully to ignore the looks of despair etched permanently onto the grotesque figures. _How many people have died here? Is that how the circle mages of Kirkwall feel? _

She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Squinting against the weak sunlight that filtered through the haze of clouds, Hawke peered up at the twin towers of the Gallows: one was home to the templars of Kirkwall, and the other imprisoned their charges.

Her father hadn't spoken much of his time at the Kirkwall circle. He wanted his children to live free of such oppression, rather than suffer as he had. Though, he _had_ acknowledged that the circle had its advantages, particularly for those who had no one to teach them control.

Hawke's lips twisted into a wry grin. _How ironic that now, despite all of Father's training, I find myself in need of help just as I did when I was a child._

Thankfully, she'd managed to find help–in the form of an apostate. She shook her head and strayed further in to the courtyard. She hadn't come here to reminisce about her family's past; she'd come to nose around in the templar's backyard. She could only imagine Carver's reaction, if he'd been here.

A quick glance around revealed the magnitude of the situation. There were templars _everywhere_. She shivered and suppressed the urge to flee. She was dressed in traditional Free Marches attire and had committed no crime by entering the Gallows. Worst case scenario, there were shops to peruse if she happened to draw unwanted attention. Nevertheless, her stomach churned at the sight of the shiny plate metal and templar insignia. There was only one mage that she could see, and he was selling wares for the circle. Two templars stood in the shadows behind him, watching for any sort of trouble. _Perhaps Carver was right and I should have avoided this place completely_.

"Excuse me, serah, may I help you find something?"

Hawke jumped and whirled around, her eyes connecting with the steel gaze of a templar. Her heart leapt into her throat as she studied his serious face, right down to his stern mouth. She continued south, her breath catching when she caught sight of the gold band encircling his left gauntlet.

_Sweet Maker, preserve me. He's the knight-captain…_

Fear laced through Hawke, and before she could regain control, magic crackled in her right fingertips. Her panic at being discovered overrode all logical thought. Without looking to see if he'd noticed her magic, she spun on her heel and sprinted down the nearest alley.

"Hey! Halt!"

He took pursuit, the heavy rush of his feet behind her urging her faster. She tore through the back alleys, her terror-stricken mind making snap decisions. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she raced down the street to her left. She skidded around the corner, her fingers brushing the stone for balance, and heard him clatter after her.

Hawke chanced a glance back, only to find him steadily gaining ground. Cursing, she brought her attention back to the front, only to shriek and stumble when she caught sight of a pile of barrels ahead. There was no escape…it was a dead end.

She dug her heels into the stone, about to backtrack, when something heavy crashed into her. The air whooshed from her lungs as the knight-captain's weight took them to the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dragon 9:31, Cloudreach 21_

_Cullen_

* * *

Cullen paused when the woman took off at a sprint.

_Holy Andraste… do I smell _that_ bad?_

"Hey! Halt!" He spurred his tired legs into action and chased after her.

He'd seen her standing in the middle of the courtyard, staring up at the towers. It had struck him as odd—the Gallows didn't exactly attract many visitors. What had started off as idle curiosity had turned to suspicion once she fled. More likely than not, she was a petty thief. If was the case, he would take back whatever she'd stolen and let her go with a stern reprimand—the baubles sold in the Gallows were hardly worth a day in the holding cells. However, he'd learned through experience that it was best to be over-cautious. Better to get to the bottom of this now than risk escalating the situation.

Cullen was steadily gaining on the girl, his long legs easily eating up the distance between them. As she slipped around a corner, Cullen shook his head. She was heading straight for a dead end. He approached the corner to prevent her from slipping past and prolonging the chase when he heard her shout of alarm. Concerned that she'd run into a lone bandit or mercenary who skulked around the Gallows, Cullen turned into the alley and put on an extra spurt of speed. Too late, he realized that she'd already come to a standstill. He dug his heels into the ground, but his momentum carried his weight straight into her.

They crashed to the ground, and Cullen instinctively put his arms around her and turned to catch most of the impact on his shoulder. His weight combined with his plate armor was liable to crush her before he could interrogate her. As soon as his head cleared, he hastily disentangled himself and pulled away. The woman pushed herself up from facedown on the ground. She knelt away from him and started coughing.

Cullen felt a wave of guilt wash over him. She _had_ run from him, but it had been obvious from the start that he was much faster than she was. Barreling into her at full speed likely hadn't endeared him to her. "Um, are you all right, serah?"

"What in the _void_ did you tackle me for?" she hissed. She rubbed her temples and then turned, fixing him with a piercing stare.

Cullen forgot his carefully prepared reply the moment he caught sight of her face. For the last year, he'd been praying for the strength to forget Solona Amell. He'd locked her bracelet away, practiced in the training yard until his palms blistered, and gone to every chantry service his scheduled allowed him to attend. The popular saying was right: the Maker truly did have a sense of humor. What other explanation could there be for Solona's face haunting him once again? Granted, he'd never seen Solona's face lit up with quite as much ire as this woman's.

Except… it wasn't an exact match. This woman was more angular, her sharp cheekbones emphasized by the choppy cut of her black tresses. And her eyes… Cullen grudgingly thanked the Maker that at least _those_ weren't the brilliant blue that he remembered all too well. Those stormy grey orbs had fixed him with a look of utmost loathing. With a start, Cullen remembered why he'd chased after this woman in the first place. "I do apologize for running into you. Nevertheless, I asked you a very simple question in the courtyard. But you ran. Why?" Cullen knew that his face was a mask devoid of expression—it was something he'd practiced ever since moving to Kirkwall. "What exactly are you doing in the Gallows?"

She had the nerve to smirk at him. "Sightseeing."

Cullen raised a brow. "Sightseeing… what?"

The woman rose to her feet and brushed off her knees. "Oh, you know… chains, statues, depression, oppression… maybe a little bit of suppression. Just a whole bunch of '_pressions_." She shrugged. "You know, all the trademarks of a thriving tourist destination."

Cullen stood silent, completely baffled. He had no idea what to make of her. "The Gallows… you… a _tourist_ destination?" _Sweet Maker, I haven't babbled like this since my first days as a templar. _

She nodded and her face transformed into the picture of wide-eyed innocence. "Oh, yes. Quite a lovely view of the sea from here. Fresh air, sheer cliffs, vultures circling nearby…" She heaved a dramatic sigh. "You can almost hear the screams of the past slaves, don't you think? Makes for a fantastic afternoon."

"Well… indeed?" Cullen shook his head and forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. "You can't honestly expect me to believe that you're here taking in the scenery."

Her lips twisted. "And here I thought I'd be able to convince you of just about anything. Pity."

Cullen's frown deepened, but he chose to ignore her insult. "Running without the slightest provocation looks suspicious."

"Maybe I was trying to talk myself into going for a jog, and you gave me the motivation I needed to start?"

Cullen sighed. "I've dealt with a large number of petty criminals since I joined the Kirkwall templars, and I recognize the signs. If you return what it is you've stolen right now, I'll simply file a report and allow you to return home."

Shock flashed across her face. "You think I'm a _thief_?"

It was evident from her reaction that she certainly wasn't. "Can you blame me? Why else would you run from authority?"

She averted her eyes. She may not have committed any crime that Cullen could tell, but he was certain that she was hiding something.

"You startled me, that's all."

Cullen repressed the urge to roll his eyes. "And being startled warrants fleeing?"

"Possibly." She scowled up at him again. "Do the templars here usually run after innocent women and knock them to the ground?"

_Maker, give me the patience to deal with this like the professional I am._ "Again, I apologize for that, serah," Cullen said through gritted teeth. "The truth this time, if you don't mind. If you refuse, I'll take you to the knight-commander on principle."

She crossed her arms, the perfect image of a petulant child. "Fine. Morbid curiosity. That's all."

Cullen cocked his head. "Curiosity? About what, may I ask?"

"The circle tower, the Gallows itself… everything," she said, gesturing wildly with her hands. "I've heard so many stories about the things that've happened here—the widespread slavery, the torture, the daily executions—I've only been to the Gallows once, and I wanted to come back and look around a bit."

Cullen stilled, recognizing the distinct lilt in her pronunciations. How hadn't he noticed it before? "You're Ferelden, aren't you?"

"Yes, my family came to Kirkwall to escape the Blight, same as hundreds of others. What of it? So are you, if I'm not mistaken."

It made sense. Cullen's first few days in Kirkwall had been a blur of activity and desperation for him. He'd wanted so badly to forget what he'd left behind in Ferelden that he'd hardly noticed any of his surroundings. After the first weeks, though, he finally paid attention to the stories and had read up on the macabre history of the area. Most of the refugees cared little about the past, all they wanted was a new future away from the darkspawn. "I am Ferelden, yes. I transferred from the circle there. It's likely that I arrived here around the same time as you." He tightened his lips, pushing back the memories of those horrific weeks of imprisonment and torture. "What is your name?"

For the first time, a wry smile touched her lips. "I go by Hawke, but my mother would prefer we go by her family name, Amell."

Cullen's chest constricted. Could it be? The resemblance this woman—this _Hawke_—bore to Solona was more than simple coincidence. His breath hitched, his heart slamming against his ribs as he struggled to maintain an impassive mask. "Amell?" Had his voice broken? He cleared his throat and fought not to choke on her name. "I-I knew an Amell once…" He forced his pulse to slow. "She was a…special woman. I've never met another like her." He whispered the last words, more to himself than Hawke—because to him, she _was_ Hawke. He glanced up in time to watch her eyes turn icy.

"You knew an Amell once, did you? Well, let me tell you something: I knew a templar, once, too." Her eyes narrowed with anger and something else… pain, perhaps? "And he was a complete prat."

Cullen's wistful remembrance of Solona burned away in the face of Hawke's ire. "I take it you don't care much for the Templar Order?"

She barked out a laugh.

"Why?" He wondered what had happened to make Hawke dislike the order so ardently. Had the templar she'd known scorned her, perhaps? It wasn't unheard of to leave behind loved ones when joining the order. Perhaps she'd been a victim of such an event. "Surely you wouldn't base your opinion of all of us on the actions of one man?"

"Listen, Ser Whatever-Your-Name-Is, as far as I'm concerned, the word 'templar' is synonymous with 'murderer'," she spat.

"_What_?" Cullen was thunderstruck. There were those who resented the templars—usually families of mages who were taken away for training—but to be accused of murder? In all his experience, he'd never seen the order turn to violence unless they were provoked or threatened. "I don't understand—"

"Oh, sorry," she interrupted. "You see, 'synonymous' means—"

"I _know_ what it means!" he snapped. His irritation deepened at the look of satisfaction on her face. _Maker's breath, she might bear a striking resemblance to Solona, yes, but the two of them couldn't be more different. _"Templars are _not_ murderers."

"Mm. Whatever helps you sleep at night," she replied noncommittally. "Now, if you don't mind, I should probably be off. My mother is expecting me home in time for dinner."

Cullen slowed his breathing with effort. "Very well, serah Hawke. Safe travels." He was eager for her to leave. She was no criminal, as far as he could tell, but her words were more deadly than a poisoned blade.

She laughed, and Cullen clenched his jaw against the tick of anger that jumped. "You templars—you're all so _predictable_. I know exactly how frustrated you are with me, but that training clicks in—" She snapped her fingers, "—and you're back to a picture-perfect, Maker-praising soldier." She leaned in and whispered, as though he was a trusted confidante and whispered, "You know, if you want to tell me to sod off, it would really be okay."

Cullen's nostrils flared, but he kept his temper in check. He was the _knight-captain_ of Kirkwall, for Maker's sake, and he refused to give some slip of a girl the satisfaction of seeing him lose his cool. "Have a good evening, serah."

She grinned at him slyly before turning and striding back toward the docks. Cullen watched her until she was out of sight, then crumbled against a wall and released the growl of frustration that had been steadily building since she'd first opened her accursed mouth. He readjusted the sword strapped to his back and marched in the direction of the practice yard.

He needed to hit something. Hard.

* * *

**A/N:** _Thank you so much to __**Jaden Anderson**__ for betaing this chapter, and to my reviewers: __**KuraNova, Loverofallfiction, Marlene101, kiley0990, Candle in the Night, **__and __**wintryone**__._


End file.
